“Read his letter again, Phil.”
He looked at me.
“Dad admitted he was wrong to say that to you. He knew he’d hurt you.”
Phil’s face crumpled.
Then he laughed bitterly.
“He finally apologized on a piece of paper.”
I looked at Dad’s handwriting.
“He finally told me he was proud of me on a piece of paper.”
For a moment, both of us laughed.
Then neither of us could stop crying.
Two grown men in their fifties.
Sitting in their dead father’s feed truck.
With his worn gloves on the dashboard.
We cried for the father we’d lost.
For the things he’d never said.
And for the four months we’d wasted being too proud to speak honestly.
—
PART 8: THE FARM’S SECOND CHANCE
Eventually, Phil wiped his face.
He placed Dad’s cap beside the gloves.
Then turned toward me.
“Will you show me what’s wrong with the fields?”
